Seoulscapade

The Bridge at Millau

While staying in Arles in January ‘08, my wife and I took day trips around the countryside. The longest one was to go and see the highest bridge in the world, the Millau Viaduc, once I discovered it was in the region. I just couldn’t miss the opportunity.

Unlike our previous day trips, everyone in the house we were staying in (all my family members who were there) decided to come with us on this one. We consulted timetables the night before and saw that our choices were limited. There were certain trains we’d have to catch without fail, or things would go awry.

Although this gargantuan bridge is supposedly one of France’s top tourist destinations, train times were certainly not convenient, at least not in the off season.

An early start the next morning was called for to get the Arles to Beziers train at 6.38 am. It to arrive in Beziers at 8.19. Then we had to catch the Beziers to Millau train at 9.10 am, which would arrive in Millau at 10.58. Here are the first leg details:

Arles to Beziers     6.38 – 8.19
Beziers to Millau    9.10 – 10.58

Total Time: 4h 20m
Total Cost : 72.00 Euro for 2 adults

Walking through the early morning streets of Arles

However, the day began, as it often did, with a delayed train—a problem that cursed us the whole time we were in the south of France. I got pretty nervous on the platform, thinking that we’d have to call everything off. Fortunately, the Arles to Beziers turned up in time for us to continue, and we got to Beziers on time for our train to Millau.

As we drew into Millau, the bridge loomed up ahead but we only got glimpses of it—awesome nonetheless. In Millau, we had little time before the only viable afternoon train back at 13.50 pm. It was around 11 am, and we still had no way of knowing how to see the bridge.

It was a good thing that we got to Millau before the all important lunchtime, as the information desk at the train station was still open. At this point, I want to stress something for anyone who wants to do something similar: book the train home, if you have not done so, as soon as you arrive.

Now, for our next glitch. The woman at the desk informed us in passable English that tours of the bridge were off for the off season! That meant we had to arrange a taxi tour, which thankfully was not difficult.

The information desk contacted a driver and he soon arrived to go over the details, mainly with my father. It was agreed that we’d be picked up at midday from the station. At this point, I felt secure that we really were going to get to that bridge. I had fears something would go wrong.

That driver did not end up taking us, since I suspect he preferred to partake of the all-important lunch, or else he was booked. Another driver showed up instead, at the agreed time. He could only spare a certain amount of time because he was booked for 1.30 pm, and we had to get back to the station around then, so we were all of the same mind in regard to time. Everyone set off with a sense of urgency, with our first stop being the visitor’s centre underneath the bridge.

Here is a shot exactly like the one I took, except it was taken on a better day. Conditions were very glarey and the terrain dry the day we were there, not making for good photos.

Great views and photo ops are offered at the visitor’s centre. However, car park fencing is in the way of the best spots for taking photos, and you can only get to them through the visitor’s centre. I asked a lady at a desk about going through for some quick pictures. But apparently I needed to be guided. I was directed to another room where tour guides awaited the every whim of visitors—well, it wasn’t quite like that.

A man and a woman were in there, chatting animatedly. In typical French counter-service style, I was looked up and down with petulance for interrupting the conversation. They said I’d have to wait for a guided tour. I certainly had no time for that with the taxi driver waiting. So, I went back to the first lady. She said that I would assuredly get through, if I simply asked the guides. For anyone who is interested in the technical name for this maneuver, it is called “being given the run around.”

I went back to the guides, who this time demonstrated some impatience. Upon a further explanation of what I wanted, I was told everything was off or canceled, or something to that effect. The message was simple: why don’t you just piss off? I got the message and left those champions of French tourism to their self-absorption. I went outside to enjoy the bridge without time to waste.

This was taken from underneath the bridge but on the other side from the one above. It shows a village built beside and partly under a cliff. The train we came in on passes by that village.

Soon we set off for a tour around the base of the bridge, stopping occasionally for photo ops. The driver, I am sure, had done this many times before. He knew just where to stop. Then we went up to the top, where there is a large car park and a viewing area. The viewing area is reached by a steep walkway. Time was limited, and the driver gave us maybe 15 minutes here, so we had to make haste up to the viewing area. But what a magnificent view greeted us. From this spot, I could better picture how they put the thing together, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the heights at which workers toiled, out over the valley.

Again, this is like a shot I took shot from the same spot, but I was facing into the sun. This is clearer.

I was the first one to that spot and the last to leave. In the end, I had to make a dash down a hill so as not to delay the driver. Then we set off for a trip over the bridge. This was a marvel, speeding high up across a valley as if in an airplane, an effect enhanced by the see through barriers on the bridge. It was over much too fast.

Driving Over

After that, we had to get back to Millau from the other side, which was a longer, more winding trip. At one point we parked at a corner on the way down a hill and were able to take in all of Millau as well as a side view of the whole expanse of the bridge. But as with other stops, we had to hurry along to get back to the station in time.

You can see how overcast and glary is was that day in the two photos above.

Here are the taxi tour details:

Time Taken: 12:00 – 1:30
Driver charged 55 Euros and we added a good tip. He got 80.

That bridge was one of the vacation highlights of my whole time in the south of France for me, so huge and yet appearing so light to the eye, and in seeing it the day after we’d seen Pont du Gard, I was privileged to a juxtaposition of mighty bridges nearly 2000 years apart in history. As a friend of my remarked when I told him of this, it would be interesting to see which is still standing in the next 2000 years.

Our tour finished at the station with little time to spare until boarding the train for Beziers. With satisfaction, I reflected that the goal of the day had been accomplished. Now we could relax. Well, not quite. Unfortunately, the small two carriage train was full to capacity with teenagers, of all things. They seemed to be from some camp or other. This turned out to be a real blight on the day. But before I get to that, here are the details of the trains:

Millau to Beziers    13.50 – 15.40
Beziers – Arles       16.05 – 17.34

Total Time: 3h 44m
Total Cost : 72.00 Euro for 2 adults

This is why I mentioned earlier that it is mandatory to book seats for that home train. Otherwise, you might have to wait until around 4 pm sometime.

We got on the train and walked from one end to the other looking for a seat. But there were teenagers lounging over everything, doing all they could not to give up any spare seats. Some were laying down across side lounge seats, which would have been ideal for the family. There were bags and clothes over every empty seat, perhaps put there by the teens out on the platform, so everything appeared to be occupied. I just pressed on through the train searching for somewhere with everyone following behind me.

I heard later that when my mother and father, who are over 70, sought seats, they were met with shrugs and teens refusing to move their feet from seats in front of them. I didn’t see this because I was up ahead. But had I witnessed such insolence, I think I would have lost all composure. My mother had even showed her ticket to some lout to try to indicate that she had a right to a seat as much as anyone, and in fact, hers was a first class Euro pass ticket. Eventually some teens did make room for my parents and my sister.

Another image from the net

I’d gotten the end of the train and was by the luggage racks and toilet near the exists. It was separated from the seating by thick glass. This is when I looked back to see that others were getting seats. I thought I’d prefer to stay where I was. Although there was nowhere to sit, there was space to move around and stretch, I could take pictures easily out of the window, and I would not have to deal with the brats. Apparently, the conductor, who had a room on the other side of this area, did not want to deal with them either. He did nothing about making sure people who paid for a seat had a seat.

Sunah was with me, but my mother motioned her in to a extra seat they’d managed to secure—presumably not without rolling eyes and sneers from the brats. So that left me with my nephew. That’s where we stayed for the whole trip.

During that journey, I occasionally looked back through the thick glass at the carriage, only to see the teenagers carrying on, with one guy in particular talking, laughing, and shouting every time I looked around. He was one of the three people opposite to where Sunah was sitting. At least everyone’s got a seat, I thought, but I couldn’t put up with all the teenage carry on. I had not realized, though, just how bad everything was in there.

I couldn’t hear anything really, except for the train, but Sunah told me later that the loud noise and carrying on in the carriage didn’t stop the whole time, especially not the merde coming from that guy. Also, it seemed he and others might have been poking fun and talking badly about my family in French.

When I met her getting off the carriage, I knew something was wrong. She looked so tense and stressed. By this time, she was suffering a terrible headache, brought on by the teen noise and behavior. She wished she had stayed with me. My parents and sister confirmed how bad it was, too. I had no idea. Again, had I been in there, somehow stuck with them, I don’t think I would have handled it like a gentleman.

Shot taken from the train window on the way home

The insolence and arrogance shown on that train was perhaps the worse I’ve ever come across of teenagers anywhere in my life. Sunah was certainly shocked, since something like that defies the order of the universe for someone brought up in Confucian Korea, where it would absolutely never happen. Even for me, when I think back to when I was a teen in Australia, I know I was an idiot, but I would never have behaved like that.

The incident was an indictment of the pampered “millennial” generation, many of whom seem to understand little beyond narcissistic gratification, and clearly demonstrated the failure of the liberal parenting experiment. The sad thing about it, too, is that those morons won’t understand what merde-heads they were until perhaps 10 years from now, or later, when they think back to their youth. Although most probably won’t remember that train trip, anyway.

But I will. I’ll always remember that on this day we saw the best of French technology and the worst of French breeding. I guess you can’t have everything. C’est la vie.

Near Les Invalides, close to the Ecole Militaire Metro station, at 54 Avenue Bosquet to be precise, is where I had my worst ever restaurant experience in Paris. The restaurant in question goes by the name of La Fontaine De Jade, although it has Restaurant Chinois Thailandais emblazoned above its windows. It’s a Thai restaurant that I will never return to, and I urge everyone to avoid it.

My wife and I had passed it the day before we went there, and we had agreed that it would be a good place for a meal after a hard day’s sightseeing around Paris. As we walked passed, I had imagined I would order large bowls of saffron colored jasmine rice and a sumptuous vegetarian green curry dish. That would be just the thing!

We hadn’t properly noted where it was, and were not familiar with the area, so after our hard day’s sightseeing the next day, it took some trouble to find the place again. That extra traipsing about added to our weariness, yet gave us even more of an appetite. Unfortunate, really . . . for the weariness and the appetite only sharpened the bitterness of the experience.

The place was empty when we walked in, and all staff were at a back table having dinner. The waiter seated us and delivered our first disappointment: the menu. The expectation that a Thai restaurant would offer up a range of vegetarian choices was not to be. We could find only two besides rice, a vegetable chop suey dish and a fried noodle side dish. Would those be enough for two to share? I inquired. The waiter former a small oval with the hands, indicating that it was not likely to be enough. To be fair, he was kindly and honest.

I resort to seafood in situations like this, where vegetarian eating is not catered for, so along with the chop suey and noodles, we ordered a prawn soup each at over 8 Euros a serve. Surely, they would practically constitute a full meal. Guess again. The soups came in decorated bowls, each of which would best be described as about the size of a coffee cup, though not as deep. The waiter seemed almost apologetic when serving them.

The soup was good, but anything would have been given how hungry we were. It could easily have been made from a packet. In my soup was the end of a baby corn, a sliver of mushroom, remnants of the kind of peeled tomato you find in a can, and prawns. The soups were downed pretty quickly. When the chop suey and noodles came, we apportioned them out and we got about a handful each from each dish.

The main ingredient in the chop suey was aged bean sprouts. I spotted amongst it what looked like another section of my baby corn—perhaps the other part to the baby corn piece in my soup—and there was another sliver of mushroom. A sliver of carrot was also in evidence. The noodles had bean sprouts as well. Yes, we had more than enough bean sprouts to go round. It was woeful.

Maybe we were even getting the left overs of what the staff had been eating when we walked in

After we ate that few cents worth, which cost us many Euros, I was still hungry, but I wasn’t going to order any more to eat from this place. However, I had been craving a coffee all afternoon, and so I ordered us one each.

After the coffees, we asked for the bill and it was delivered not by the kindly waiter but by a Thai gentleman who slithered up with it. Yes, human beings can slither. You don’t see it often but when you do, it is unmistakable and cannot really be described in any other way.

He had a really serious look, too, this guy, a look I’d seen before in Thailand. It is a look borne of a mix of aggression, impatience, fear, insecurity and envy, and it is at its most intense when its bearer is on the verge of clasping money, and when the only thing in the way of that money is you, the customer. You could swear guys like this are trying their best to stifle screams of exasperation at such a critical juncture. All they want is for you to disappear.

The bill came to 45 Euros, believe it or not. He bought back the tray with the change in a hunched but swift manner, after I’d already indicated no change was necessary, since a tip is customary. I said “That’s for you.” But he just kept muttering, “merci, au revior,” or something of the sort, repeatedly, in a dismissive way, as he slunk around behind me.

Then we were farewelled at the door by a waitress with a forced smile. I was getting the impression that they had been prepared for trouble.

I’m not the type, and instead simply vote with my feet, or put the word out. So here I am, putting the word out that, for me, out of everywhere I’ve ever eaten in Paris on my several visits there, La Fontaine De Jade, has the distinction of being the worst.

OK, here’s some explanation to the following. I’ve traveled a bit and have put up with what most have to while traveling without a fuss. But everyone has their limits and when you stand back and take a cold hard look at it, some things about traveling really suck.

Why I became so annoyed about what people commonly put up with is perhaps because I’ve been spoiled by the Korea’s excellent transport systems–far superior to those of Europe. This discrepancy, and the fact that I’m less tolerant than I used to be, has compelled to write of the following ordeal.

To start our 2 week vacation to the south of France in January, 2008, we had to endure a 10-12 hour flight to Paris, then transfer to a 1.3 hour flight to Nice, which was delayed for another couple of hours. It was wearying as you can imagine.

Livestock Conditions

I was dreading Flight AF 267 from Incheon to Paris because I knew it’d be grueling. As it turn out, it was, with additional unforeseen trials adding to the hardship.

The Boeing 777 used for this flight had a seating arrangement installed for economy that borders on the inhuman. I mean, I’m strongly against the appalling confinements livestock suffer, and in all fairness I also object to such conditions being applied to humans.  It was like a kind of torture and patently not suitable for 10-12 hour flights. I really think flight seating measurements should be looked into because I swear the airlines, or Air France at least, are shrinking them centimetre by centimetre each year, on the sly.

I am not a large person at just 77 kgs and I’m under 6 feet tall, but what I was expected to fit into gave me practically no moving space at all. It was similar, I guess, to what sows sufferer in factory farm gestation crates, which is torture. I find it hard to believe that anyone else could find this restricted space acceptable after paying so much for an airline ticket. Why do people put up with it?

I had to get out to stretch at one point and upon my return, while standing in the aisle, I was taken aback by the space I was expected to fit in. Just seeing it from that angle, I just couldn’t believe it. I stood there kind of stunned. I actually went and inspected other rows to check that my seating was not worse then everyone else’s.

The Three Little Pigs

As if the cramped quarters weren’t bad enough, we had what can only be described as inconsiderate arseholes sitting in front of us, who henceforth shall be known as the three little pigs. The pigs were French, by the way, not Korean. As soon as they sat down they inclined their seats as far back as they would go, and that’s how they stayed for the duration of the flight. That reduced my space considerably. Sometimes the guy in front of my was bouncing hard on his seat as if to try and force it back further. Unbelievable. It took a lot of restraint to keep my cool.

To be fair, the monk was not as bad, he actually raised his seat to eat meals. However, that was no help to us, since a fat lady was in front of my wife and the bouncer, a pompous prick with a nose like something on a gargoyle was in front me. Both of them were oblivious to any consideration towards us. As the flight began to drain our energies, we began to hate them.

It was also aggravating that the three little pigs had the seats by the exit door, so they had all the leg room they could want. And so, they spread themselves out in that direction as well by leaving items lying around their feet. They had to be asked several times by airline staff to pick up their things. But they pretty much ignored these directives.

In situations like this, I often give up because I don’t want to lower my standards to their level with petulant retaliations, and because I am sometimes benumbed by the sheer enormity of human stupidity and ignorance—so insurmountable that it is foolish to even bother to protest. It’s like when you a dealing with children, or even pigs, you indulge their lack of insight. It does not always do much to lessen the anger.

Double Standards by Air France

Does Air France use such a torturous seating arrangement because it’s a Korean flight and because there is a mistaken belief that Koreans are smaller than Caucasians? It is true that the Japanese are smaller on average than Caucasians, and it might have once been true of Koreans, but it is not true of the average Korean anymore. Air France needs to adjust its policy, not just for Caucasians like me flying out of Korea, but for Koreans, too.

On top of everything an incident occurred that could only be described as discrimination. My wife, who is Korean, was like me finding the confinement of the seating hard to cope with. By the way, she is somewhat smaller than me, and even she found it torturous. The woman in front of her ignored any protest. At one point, it got too much for my wife and she asked one of the stewards to get the person in front to put her seat up. The steward simply shrugged and did nothing. However, later, my wife noticed a steward asking a Korean passenger to put their seat up at the request of someone seated behind them.

Is there a special rule for French passengers and another rule for everyone else? It would seem so because, to add insult to injury, the rude people in front of us were not even made to put their seats up during meal service. Putting seats upright is usually a standard requirement on all airlines at meal times. Why does Air France not practice this policy? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to eat a meal when the person in front of you has the seat back as far as it will go?

The only advantage of nearly having my chest crush by the seat in front of me was that the video screen was now closer. This was useful because my video screen was tiny. As I later discovered, the screen sizes on seats were completely random as to who got a good screen and who didn’t. Some people had new larger screens while others like me, who presumably paid the same price for a ticket, got a tiny old fashion screen that was like watching an iPod. This only added to the resentment of the conditions I was expected to endure.

Why didn’t I put my seat back to give myself a few more inches? Because I hate to inconvenience the person behind me.

Vegetarian? Rabbit Food Will Do.

I was the subject of reverse discrimination, however, because I had pre-ordered a vegetarian meal. That meant I was served before everyone else. That part was fine. But what could the nation renowned for its rich cuisine deliver? For my main course, I was given salad. For my side dish, I was given yet another salad—the same kind of salad! One was big, the other was small. So, my meal mostly consisted of lettuce and and cherry tomatoes.

But I will give them credit where it was due. My meal was not delayed.

Delay After Delay

It was a great relief to get off that flight, but then we had to contend with Charles De Gaulle, which is a dump compared to Korea’s Inchean. We couldn’t see any signs for transfer to a domestic flight and had to face French information desk staff to get help. We were encouraged by not getting as much disdain as I expected. There was even a smile. I suspected something was wrong—or perhaps she was new.

We rushed to another terminal and got to the security check a couple of minutes before the close of boarding. We needn’t have worried about the time because the fight was delayed. And then as we were boarding, boarding was delayed because they wouldn’t open the plane door. Then on board the flight was delayed further while they moved cargo around for balance. I doubt such a delay would even happen in Korea—people wouldn’t stand for it.

By this time weariness was setting in, and so was body odor from stewing in one’s own juices for something like 14 hours. This plane wasn’t full, though. It was so empty, the first 10 rows had to move to the back to provide ballast for take off!

The aircraft was an Airbus A320, and this actually had leg room, by which I mean room for a pair of average legs plus some extra space for leg movement. This kind of aircraft would have been much better for the Seoul to Paris flight.

The flight to Nice was pretty quick and the airport wasn’t busy. Fortunately I had researched about getting into town, but I asked at the information desk anyway, who told me less than what I already knew. It’s funny, they’ll tell you to catch a bus at platform 5 but they will not tell you where platform 5 is. They will help you but only with the  minimum they can get away with. We couldn’t see any signs to direct us the the platform, and it was only be chance we eventually found it.

Getting Into Nice

To get into Nice from the airport’s Terminal 2 take bus 98. Pay the jaded driver around 4 Euros per person. Don’t bother to ask him for any help unless you can interpret grunts. He’ll give you a one day pass that is good for all bus routes.

Bus 98 does not have a map of its route anywhere. You don’t know where it will stop, and when it stops, you don’t know the name of the stop. This would never happen in Korea, not with such a pressing need for efficient mass movement. In France, if it’s only bedraggled tourists that will be faced with confusion, who gives a shit?

I had a map I’d printed off and an idea of where we were going in my head. Still, it was dark because of the delayed flight, which I hadn’t planned on, and I could not read any signs of significance. The scale threw me as well. Distances were smaller than expected. So, I didn’t have my bearings and wasn’t ready for our stop.

That was another bit of bad luck, as the bus got stuck in a main drag traffic jam before the next stop. Fortunately, our walk to the hotel didn’t take long because, as mentioned, distances were not great.

Salvation at the Roosevelt

At the Hotel Roosevelt, at the very doorstep of our destination, the whole dynamics of the journey changed. Here we were treated like humans. We were greeted in a most pleasant and helpful way by the desk clerk. The hotel foyer was simple, clean and neat and this was also reflected in the room. A kettle was even supplied, so we could have a welcome coffee, which you don’t often get these days.

What a relief it was to finally collapse on the bed, after what ended up being around 18 hours of uncomfortable travel. We were thoroughly exhausted.

Air France and Institutionalized Merde

My last word on this jaunt is that because Air France has a monopoly on direct flights to Paris from Korea, it possibly believes it can get away with anything. However, I suggest that Air France rethink their seating policies and upgrade their fleet. I certainly won’t be taking the direct route to Paris again on Air France until I hear that conditions are better.

To learn how to improve, Air France need only look and learn from the Koreans. The flight back from Paris was magical with Korean Air compared to the torture of getting there with Air France. With Korean Air, people in economy have more space. The video screens were the largest I had ever seen and the viewing selections the widest range I have ever seen. There must have been about 20 to 30 movies to watch. The staff ensures seats are upright at meal times and were courteous at all times.

I won’t go on because, quite frankly, what the French could learn from Koreans, in terms of customer service, transport and consideration of others, would fill an entire book.

The memory of a Qantas flight on my way back to Australia from Korea won’t go away so I thought I’d record it now, late as it is. It was April 29, 2005, when I took the night flight in question from Hong Kong to Perth, arriving early in the morning. The flight name may have been QF68, as it is now called.

I was seated across and back a few seats from a family man, who might have been immigrating. He was Middle Eastern in appearance, perhaps Turkish or Lebanese, I don’t know. His English was not at a native level. He had an aisle seat facing the paneling in the middle of the aircraft. It was the kind of seat I would have liked because of the extra leg room.

For some reason, this guy attracted all the attention of the Qantas flight staff—attention of the wrong kind. Right from the start, they were harassing him. Do this, do that, don’t leave that there. You can’t do this, you can’t do that. He wasn’t really doing much wrong, as far as I could see, no more than anyone else. He just had an exposed kind of seat, I suppose, on the corner.

Now, I’ll leave this passenger for a moment to describe the staff to give an idea of the flight experience for me. Gone are the days when you will see attractive hostesses on a Qantas flight. It’s not the done thing to discriminate anymore, and Australia is big on equality issues, or tries to be. So, the air-hostesses (air-hostpersons?) were all, well, let’s say past their prime. But that didn’t bothered me so much as their manner. They were gruff, showed signs of impatience and called people “Love.” If I closed my eyes, I could have sworn I was in a country pub listening to coarse tones of a old-time barmaid.

As an Australian, I found this brash manner and country-bumpkin informality not just far from the air-hostess ideal, it was also far from being internationally chic. I couldn’t help but feel seriously embarrassed. I wondered what people from other nations on the flight were thinking. It made me sink down further into my seat and hope that others didn’t think I was Australian. In effect, I cringed.

When we got a meal, these women were almost throwing heated foil containers onto our trays. I watched as my meal left the hostesses hands a few inches above my tray. It actually flew. It was something you would see in a comedy movie. “There ya go, Love,” she said.

But back to the poor gentleman on the aisle. Things came to a head with him after we had landed in Perth. There was some confusion about fumigation, the spraying of the inside of the aircraft. I can’t remember the exact details, but I think at first it was going to be done, so we had to remain seated, and then it wasn’t going to be, so we were told we could all leave. Everyone got up and started getting down their baggage. Then, suddenly, it was decided that spraying was going to be done after all, so we all had to sit down again. It was a debacle.

The foreign gentleman, however, was not quick enough in sitting down. I doubt he even knew what was going on, and who could blame him? At that point, a burly hostesses arrived on the scene and started badgered him to sit, hastily and roughly. There might have been some man handling. That was when he finally snapped. He loudly spoke back, saying something like, “Stop your pushing me!” or “Stop treating me like that!”

I was thinking, good on him. But then he become the focus of attention for a steward as well and there was a stand off, with more commands for him to sit down with authoritarian menace. And with that, this guy was transformed into the bad guy, the one holding things up.

I was thinking that if it escalates, I’m going to intervene on that guy’s behalf. But it didn’t progress, and the guy sat down, looking really dejected. I saw him later in the terminal, still looking stressed and angry. I thought about going up and apologizing to him. I didn’t, though, because I thought it might not go well, or he might take things out on me, or it just wasn’t appropriate.

I really wish now that I had done something, not just then in the terminal, but back in the plane when the guy was being picked on. Perhaps that’s why I remember this flight with bitterness, partly because I didn’t act when I should have. No one else did anything, either.

One thing is certain, when I stepped off that flight to set foot again in my own country, I was never more ashamed and embarrassed to be an Australian. So, so ashamed and embarrassed.

I have not flown with Qantas since.

Click for a bigger view . . .

Seeing Busan, the second largest city in Korea and the country’s largest port and fisheries, was a first for me, although Sunah had been before. We headed down there after Sunah was able to book a free condo room through her company. Our journey to Busan was on the super fast KTX, which is like Japan’s Shinkansen. It only took a few hours.

After arriving, we caught a bus that would take us to close to our condo. This turned out to be on the other side of town, across the other side of the harbour you see above, and over near the round building where the 2005 Apec talks were held. It was a lengthy ride that gave us views of some of the construction projects on the other side of the city. This was one thing I wasn’t expecting—the amount of construction going on, with wide expanses being developed and high-rises going up everywhere.

You’d think I would be used to all of this kind of thing in Korea, but it still amazes me to see the extent of construction taking place, constantly. We eventually got to our condo to find it was located right on the water’s edge, among a cluster of other high-rise condos and hotels, some of which were nearing completion or else had just been completed. As you can see, two of them obscured half of what must have once been a great view from our condo. The view to the right of this at least was a clear one across the water to the horizon.

My wife had organized that we would met her brother’s family and her mother in Busan that afternoon. They were driving down and were going to stay at a hotel not too far away. Eventually, we hooked up and went for a tour around central Busan in the late afternoon and night. The top picture and the one below, continuing the panorama to the right, were taken from a hilltop tower in central Busan.

That dirty great hole you see before the orange bridge is a massive construction project for a new Lotte world amusement park. Click for a bigger view . . .

What I was most keen to see in town were the location and venues for the famous Busan International Film Festival. This turned out to be an area of compressed street malls lined by multistory buildings, a collection of which housed various kinds of cinemas. We walked around the place just after dark, and even then it was packed with people. How uncomfortable it would be, I imagined, during the festival season.

After that we took a short drive to the fish markets. Everyone will tell you, if you go to Busan, you have to visit the fish markets. And Busan’s famed for seafood, so everyone aims to have fish when there—raw, preferably. I passed that tradition by because I do what I can to stay vegetarian.

While for most people a seafood market is a place of food, for me it’s a place of death. They put death on display for you, the vendors, by grabbing what looks like an eel or long fish, plunging it head first onto a nail, then stripping it of its skin. The raw red body after that writhes from the nerves working overtime. By this demonstration, vendors proudly indicate that if you want fresh, you’ve come to the right place.

Thanks, but no thanks. Moving on past stall after stall of writhing skinned fish, you see all manner of marine animal—anything from stingrays to crabs to turtles to sea dogs. Sea dogs? That’s the translated Korean name for seals. It’s an unfortunate name, for it does little to change any perception that it is not food, given that numbers of Koreans eat dogs. I saw chunks of seal flipper poking out of a bucket.

We didn’t eat around here, but fish was on the menu the next night after a hard day’s touring. The next day we toured a few sights with Sunah’s brother’s family, mainly outside of Busan. One stop was on a hill top from which we could look back and see our condo. It was there, a tall building behind the tall buildings, just beside the other tall buildings. The APEC conference building stands at the end of that little peninsula in front.

One of the main places we went to was a famous Buddhist temple. I don’t know why. When you’re visiting Busan, you just go there. As usually with tourists spots like this, it was packed with people. Scammers were also extracting entrance fees from unsuspecting motorists, like us, on the road well before the temple’s carpark. Maybe they were real Buddhist monks, maybe they weren’t. Buddha would say they weren’t. Many drivers just ignored them and drove past.

That night we went to a well-known beach-front tourist area on Busan’s outskirts. The long beach front drive was abuzz with diners and revellers, all no doubt with their mind’s on raw fish. That was our main purpose in being there, or rather that was everyone else’s—mine was simply to take in the sights.

We ended up at a restaurant whose first floor was entirely taken up with knee high fish tanks and their many varieties of live, splashing fish. Customers choose the fish they want then head upstairs to a table. We followed the same routine. Before long, the freshly killed fish arrived at the table in sushi slices and everyone ate more than their fill. I grazed side dishes and avoided the fish—unheard of, I guess, in Busan.

The next day was more sightseeing on the outskirts of Busan. A memorable part of this was after we paid a guy at the top of a cliff for a coastal boat cruise, and then clambering down the cliff to the boat, only to have the boat’s captain asked for more money, saying that there weren’t enough people to make the trip worth while. An huge argument ensued between the captain and Sunah’s brother, whose case, quite rightly, was that it wasn’t his job to compensate the captain his misfortune of a slow day.

A young policeman stood by on the rocks, doing nothing, as required of his post. I think he was for show, or there to report any tourist related infractions, rather than to stop them. In any case, as a younger man, he did not have much authority over the situation, according to Korean society’s age-based hierarchy.

The upshot was that we left to clamber back up the cliff’s steep steps, with the boat captain shouting after us that he was sorry, that we should come back for a cruise at the normal price. It was all very funny. And it was a further insight into the Korean psyche, where sometimes the idea of being obliged, being considerate to others and being part of one big, genetically pure happy family kind of gets distorted, in the minds of some, into the twisted idea that “others should carry my load.”

Actually, we might have even run out of time if we had taken that boat trip. We had to make it back to the train station and it took a while to get through the traffic. In a rush, we were dropped off by Sunah’s brother at the station and hastily boarded the KTX back to Seoul. What was the biggest lesson I took away with me? If you’ve got any spare cash, invest in Busan real-estate. The place is booming, perhaps even more on land than on sea.

My honeymoon was my second European trip, but this time it was to Paris, Dublin, London and back to Paris. The last time I went, the Internet did not exist for the general public, but this time I was able to book hotels and flights online. There were no problems. October was a good time to be there, with mostly decent weather and fewer tourists.

I should confess, the trip was designed to follow a kind of literary trail. In Paris, I made a point of visiting some Samuel Beckett landmarks, such as the one featured below. It’s Beckett’s long term home in Paris, 38 Boulevard St. Jacques, after he moved from Rue des Favorites (which I also visited); he lived on the 7th floor. Don’t worry, I ensured that my new wife, Sunah, didn’t miss out on seeing all of the standard tourist spots as well. We got everything done without too much rushing around, too. We were organized and kept busy enough not to have the energy for newly wed arguments.

Europe seemed much the same as it was 20 years ago, except more expensive, of course. One difference I noticed in Paris, however, was that the French were more inclined to speak English and seemed more tolerant of tourists. You have to admire that, what with the huge volume of tourists they have to put up with. I suspect things are different in peak season, when the tension between desiring to please to make money and loathing to accommodate petulant and demanding foreigners is at its zenith. I also noticed that more immigrants were working in service jobs or else running businesses.

Paris has always been multicultural, but multiculturalism in Dublin was something I didn’t expected. I had not been to Dublin before, and I guess I was anticipating something like a modern version of the city described in famous Irish literature from the last century. Sure, some of the landmarks were still there, but I didn’t hear much of the Irish accent walking down the streets. From what I gathered while there, the influx of immigrants is changing the face of Ireland; that seemed pretty evident. Poles especially are swelling the population, though they are not as readily accepted as harder working Asians, going on what a taxi driver said.

As for Dublin itself, I was somewhat underwelmed, although this impression is probably tainted by the literary focus I had. It is a bit touristy, nonetheless. A good example of this is the misleadingly named Guinness Brewery Tour. On the ‘tour,’ a self-guided affair, you will not see anything of the real Guinness brewing and bottling process. You just get funnelled to a merchandise shop, up various floors of memorabilia, panels, lights and noises, and end up at bar with a view of Dublin and a free pint of Guinness. The view and the pint are good, you can skip the rest.

They flog their literary heritage even though so many of their dead writers were ostracized while alive. Yet there is just not that much literary ‘stuff’ to see. There are house addresses you can visit, although I didn’t bother—I’d seen the main addresses I wanted to see in Paris. In any case, the most well known address would be Joyce’s 7 Eccle’s Street but there’s a hospital where it once stood. Actually, we stayed in a hotel that had been converted from a residence where George Bernard Shaw once lived, the Harcourt.

I enjoyed seeing a few other literary landmarks like Trinity College and Swift’s St. Patrick’s and venturing to Joyce’s Martello Tower in Sandycove, Dun Laoghaire. We also went on the convenient city bus tour—the best way to see things fast, walked along streets I’d heard of, and strolled through Stephen’s Green. There wasn’t time to do the literary pub tour, which might have been fun. I suspect, however, that we might have just seen a lot of other tourists. Since they banned smoking in pubs, business has dropped off. We did get to the writer’s museum, but it was a waste of time; you can read about the lives of Irish writers off a wall and view some old editions in glass cases—I mean, so what; you’d be just as enlightened surfing the Internet.

Had we the time, it would have been nice to tour more of the coast and inland country, like the Wicklow region, and see the rural side of Ireland. That might have given me the feeling that I would like to go back. As a last word, the friendliness of the Irish could not be faulted.

The next leg of the journey was from Dublin to London. In London, we took a city tour bus and then a Thames river cruise on the day we arrived. On the next day we headed off to meet my brother on the outskirts of London, and he drove us to Reading University, where I looked over some Beckett archives. Then it was on to Oxford to spend the afternoon with his family and have a quick look around before taking a train back to London. The next morning we took a flight back to Paris and returned to the hotel we’d initially stayed in, the Hotel Ares Eiffel. If anyone wants a basic, decently priced, well located hotel in Paris, this is it.

The return to Paris was purely for relax time, with the majority of the sightseeing out of the way. As the end approached, I didn’t really want to come back; I was starting to feel quite comfortable in Europe, or perhaps it was that I didn’t want the traveling to end so soon.

But I won’t miss the European cost of living, that’s for sure; and I won’t miss the transport systems, either: whoever designed the knee space for strangers opposite each other on Dublin’s trains should be sacked; Charles de Gaule was a dump compared to Korea’s Incheon International; London’s subway is clunky and Paris’ is quaint and petite compared to Seoul’s efficient, clean, heavy duty system. Seoul traffic, however, is another matter entirely.

In many respects, people who haven’t lived in Seoul don’t know what their missing; and getting away from Seoul showed me why I still like living here. Now I’m back, life is back to normal, well, except that I’m married.

Jeju Island is known as the Hawaii of Asia, an island populated by volcanic craters and whose landscapes bear a dark hue because of volcanic rocks and soils. The mother of all volcanoes on Jeju is the dormant Halla Mountain, which dominates at the centre of the Island. Mt. Halla, in fact, is all of Jeju Island. We decided to climb that mother.

You can see in the photos below what are merely the foothills–hard going enough. There was no snow anywhere else on Jeju but there was plenty on the mountain at that time of year and it made for an exhausting yet exhilarating hike. I’ll get to that in a moment.

Our trip came about when my wife Sunah managed to book a condo apartment at the Poonglim Resort through her company. Like the company condos we had stayed at on trips elsewhere, it was free. We strategically flew there before a long weekend and left as the holiday hordes began arriving. This meant that the condo was barely half full. We almost felt like the only ones there, as our condo apartment was at the end of an apartment block wing, which opened directly onto a large grassed terrace and overlooked the ocean.

Traveling around, we used local buses and taxis. On our first day, our first stop was the famous Cheonjiyeon Waterfall, not far from where we were staying, near Seogwipo Port; however, it wasn’t the season for it and not much water was falling. In an case, waterfalls have to be huge to interest me, and I wouldn’t call this one huge. It was a pretty spot and the area was relaxing to walk around in, but I was keen to get on and see my first volcano crater.

We headed next to the Samgumburi crater, which is relatively small but is near a main road and does not require climbing to get to. We took a taxi straight there, thinking it not a lengthy journey. It was longer than expected because the island is bigger than the impression gained from a glance at a map. The convenience and time saved with a taxi, however, was worth it.

After that we caught a bus to the Jeju Folk Village in Pyoseon, where we stayed until closing. Here we could see the traditional way in which the dungdweegi (dung pigs) were kept, and perhaps still are. There were live ones in the pens in the village that probably weren’t only for show.

I’d heard about the dung pigs, and knew about the reputation of Jeju’s pork, famed for it’s texture and flavor. As a vegetarian of course I was loathe to sample it. I was also troubled by the correlation between the quality of pork and that it was from pigs reared on shit, presumably human. The other problem I have with it is that in the natural world, most animals do not go out of their way to eat shit, when there natural diet is available.

You can see below a demonstration (dry rehearsal only) of the old-style feeding procedure. That’s me atop a specially designed squat that has a hole leading to the dining area in the pig pen. Next to it is a postcard depiction of the hijinks. Sorry, not that funny to me.

The next day was the mighty Halla mountain climb. Again, we employed the convenience of a taxi, but things were a little slippery as we journeyed up the mount. We were dropped at a crowded parking area, which on this day was the limit for vehicles; the rest of the way had to be on foot.

Not knowing what was ahead, we trekked a paved road that just kept going on and on. Eventually, we arrived at another rest area with restaurants and shops at the bottom of mountainous terrain. It had already taken us a couple of hours just to get to this point, and we were pretty weary, but we hadn’t even started climbing.

After some food and rest, we bought what were perhaps the most valuable things we purchased on Jeju: strap-on boot spikes. Then we set out on the climb. The views were magnificent, with thick snow, icicles and a frozen waterfall offering magical sights. There were plenty of other climbers about—crowds are seemingly the norm on any mountain in Korea, even before the arrival of long-weekend vacationers.

After ascending some mounts and passing through a half buried forest area, we ventured onto a kind of snow plain that led to another rest area. The snow was so deep here that further progress was not allowed, and besides, it was late afternoon and just about closing time. Everyone was being told to clear off. That we did, following the trail down the other side of the mount, again over a snow plain, with surreal views that included small secondary craters, and then down into an extensive forested area thick with snow.

Many hikers were tobogganing down narrow paths, sitting on plastic bags or backpacks. I did the same with my backpack (my preferred mode of transport). Even doing that, off and on, it took quite a while to descend the mountain and arrive at a larger parking area. From here we walked a road to reach the main road, where we could catch a bus into Jeju and then back to our resort.

It was certainly a relief to sit down on that bus when if finally came. Later, the evening was spent imbibing alcoholic refreshments to take the edge of the aches and celebrate our day with a well-earned feeling of accomplishment.

Our last day was less arduous. We simply visited the Botanical Garden or “Yeomiji” near our resort and walked along the coast back towards our condo, marveling at the coastal volcanic formations. These formed apparently from the rapid cooling of lava flows as they hit ocean water.

Later we visited one of the famed lava caves or tunnels, which were huge course ways created by ancient lava flows. There was a sign in one informing about a shelf that indicates the level the lava came to; as if a snipe at dummies, it said: ‘It is called a “lava shelf,” obviously because it looks like a shelf.’ That cracked me up. At a park surrounding one of these ancient formations, they had 300 year old bonsai trees on display, which for me were equally intriguing.

Altogether, it was a great trip and one not as expensive as people often warn it might be. It did not have that much of a touristy feel about it either, not to me at least, but perhaps that was because of the time we chose to go there. When at the airport readying to depart, we saw the holiday crowds arrive and were glad we’d avoided them.

Jeju used to be practically the one and only honeymoon destination for Koreans. One of the main reasons for that was because, not so long ago, ordinary Koreans were forbidden to leave the country. It was the main Island getaway. Now Koreans go further afield for honeymoons, but many still choose Jeju, and I could see why.

I know, it does look like I’m sitting in a giant cocktail, but I made certain not to taste it.

It was of many hot tubs at a water park called Water Pia, near the Soruk Mountains on the east coast of Korea. The Sorak Mountains, commonly known to everyone as Soraksan, is where Sunah and I went on a trip in Autumn, 2004. The place is famous as the largest and highest mountain range in Korea. We went there because of that, because Sunah had managed to book one of her company’s condo apartments, which we could use for free, and because it promised to be spectacular, as it was at the peak of the season for leaves turning bright red and orange. Why we should not have gone there is because of this: we arrived there at the peak of the peak season.

We arrived at our condo at night, the one you can see beyond this hot tub at Water Pia. We’d taken a bus from Seoul and then a taxi to the condo at the foot of the Soraksan range. It did not seem too crowded, but that might have been because people were off doing things. The next day, we sought out a taxi to take us on a day tour, a common thing to do and not overly expensive.

Our first stop was this Buddhist temple on the coast, Naksansa, a standard stop for tourists. It was not too crowded either, probably because it was early morning. From here we headed up into the mountains. This was when the hoards of people present at Soraksan began to appear. This is when we struck our first traffic jam.

Much of what we saw was from the window of the taxi, unless we stopped somewhere, not that there were many places to park. It was bumper to bumper up the mountain. But because of the traffic, we frequently came to standstills overlooking magnificent valleys. The driver later dropped us off at the entrance to a hiking path and we were to meet him out the other end of the trail in a couple of hours. At last we could get closer to nature.

It was good to get out of the taxi, but human traffic on the nature hike was sometimes like the traffic on the roads, choked. The scenery was fantastic, with the richest of reds in the leaves. Sometimes it was actually possible to take a picture without a human in it. Often you had to wait your turn to gain vantage points for scenic shots. It was hard to detect tranquility out there amongst nature.

We emerged at the end of the trail and had a welcome rest and some lunch. It was then on to see Baeckdamsa. The driver dropped us at the entrance to the park where the temple is located. We had to take a shuttle bus from here. Because of the hoards the wait time was intolerable. We decided to walk the few kilometers.

I highly recommend the walk. It’s most refreshing, except that if you have already been hiking before it, you should conserve your energy. The few kilometers took longer than expected and much of it was uphill. It was hard going. The scenery was great, oh, yes, great scenery all the way.

The scenery around temple was great, too. The temple itself was like other temples, nothing new of note that I could see. After a look around, we joined the truly massive queue for the shuttle bus back out of the valley. It was dark by the time our turn came. At that point we were completely buggered. The taxi driver, as diligent as ever, was waiting for us when we got back to the entry point, and he took us back to the condo.

The next day, a Sunday, we planned to do some serious hiking, up nearby mountain peaks, and to take in some more of that wonderful scenery. It was around 8 when we left the condo, all packed for the hike, nice and early. We had planned to take a cable car up to the peaks and hike down. It was around 8.15 when we hit a traffic jam in a town a kilometre or two from the entrance to hike trails and the cable car. I took this as a bad sign. Who would have thought we’d hit a traffic jam early on a Sunday morning? With no way out and no where else to go, we stuck with it.

Eventually, we were dropped near a park entrance. You can see what greeted us. It was interesting to note that buses did not stop at the entrance or were not frequent. Taxi drivers, as a consequence, were making huge sums simply ferrying people from the nearby town to the park entrance and back, just a few kilometres. It was a huge day for them, but this was only impressed on me later, as I will soon relate.

Undeterred by the crowds, Sunah lined up for the cable car tickets. She was told the wait for the cable car would be around 8 hours, yes, 8 hours! Needless to say, we did not purchase any tickets. In fact, I’d had enough, and we decided to abandon the whole day of hiking. It was a wise decision. Then we walked for a while back towards the town. People were still coming and going in droves, walking and by taxi, as you can see below.

We began looking out for a taxi. Not many would stop for us. One did near town, however. We got in and Sunah told him to head for the condo. At this the driver drove off, making a fuss about something. He was muttering, smiling, shaking his head, sighing. It went on for too long, and obviously, something was wrong. I asked Sunah about it and she asked the driver. We learned that taxi drivers make all their cash taking people from the town to the park gate and back. It’s a short trip, perhaps worth no more than the flag charge, but if you do one of those every five minutes, that’s a big day. We had just ruined his big day.

Because the driver had to take us out of the area, he would miss out on hours of those lucrative short runs. He even suggested that the whole day was ruined because the traffic jam back into the mountains was so congested that it would not be worth going back. We sympathized with him and gave him a tip. I don’t think it improved his level of happiness.

After dumping all of our hiking gear at the condo, we headed over to Water Pia nearby, with its pool and slides and hot tubes of all kinds. This is where we spent the morning, just soaking and relaxing. Our decision to quit the mountains had been a wise one. After the park, we caught an afternoon bus back to Seoul. We’ll probably go back for more of Soraksan, but we’ll pick the time with more care next time.

Japan was like a bigger, brighter and cleaner version of Korea. That’s not to say I found it any more interesting than Korea. In fact, some things just weren’t worth seeing, like the Imperial Palace’s surroundings, which are all you’re allowed to see of the Palace, anyway. It was also annoying to have to pay to get into just about everything—that is, except the surroundings of the Imperial Palace.

I felt that some of Japan was starting to look tired and old, from once famous buildings to subway stations to tourist spots. The touristy stuff didn’t interest me all that much. No, the things that interested me most were the stuff of modern Japan—the architecture, surprising references to the rape of Nanking on television, the obsession with cuteness, the highly sexualized status of school girls, and the ubiquitous cartoon imagery, often of, well, cute sexy school girls.

Japan’s fast trains made it a pretty easy country to travel. I arranged my hotels over the net, choosing the cheapest I could find. I downloaded maps and worked out an itinerary. Basically, I did everything myself using the Internet and just followed a travel plan that was adaptable and flexible. And I walked a lot, as I was prepared to do. However, I wasn’t prepared for the blisters from cheap sneakers made soggy from thy typhoon rains that swept in for a couple of days. If my foot didn’t hurt so much I could have kicked myself for not taking my hiking boots. Nonetheless, I didn’t let it stop me from seeing all I wanted to see.

Interestingly, the book I took for nighttime reading was Doug Stanton’s In Harms Way: The Sinking of the USS Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors, which gave an extra historical dimension to my trip. Before it was torpedoed, the Indianapolis had delivered to the island of Tinian the parts of “Little Boy,” the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. These parts were assembled and the bomb was dropped a few days after the Indianapolis’s survivors were finally rescued. The book was well worth the read, and I visited Hiroshima the day after finishing it.

Sometimes the little things are what you remember best. I remember delivery men and garbage men actually jogging from place to place with what appeared to be a high level of enthusiasm. Perhaps that explains the clean streets. The bikini clad doll figure seen in game parlours and on ads was another point of interest; she has the cartoon face of an 8 year old and the body of a large breasted 18 year old nympho. I saw a life size model of her at one game parlor in a typically provocative pose. It’s one of those things you feel somewhat uneasy about but can’t look away. I wanted to take a photo but felt somewhat conflicted.

Walking through the Shibuya and Shinjuku areas of Tokyo at night, with their myriad of often bizarre sights, was great. It was too much to take in sometimes. In the end, however, it’s all pretty superficial, from the tan parlour beach girls with their blond hair to the J-pop music and it’s inane tunes. The high quotient of cute girls was always a delight, however.

Curiously, I saw a lot of groups of girls at Shibuya and elsewhere—like the tanned Barbarella dolls or just your everyday office worker—sitting around together, not really doing much. Perhaps they were just absorbed in their own little cliques. But many of them looked really bored to me. There were no guys around, and none paying much attention except for foreign tourists like me. I thought some of them were absolutely stunning (unlike the ones below).

Another thing I wasn’t expecting was the amount of homeless. They congregate in parks and live there in blue tarpaulin tents, set up in clumped groups under park trees. They were practically ‘blue tent towns’ and were for the most part always neat and tidy, their compacted earth surrounds well swept. These residents gave the impression that they were there for the long term. Many of these ‘towns’ were located at exclusive addresses, choice parkland in each city.

Did I mention that the Japanese were polite? Everyone hears about that, and it’s true. I think the best way to describe it is to say that they are very aware of when to be considerate. Even teenagers think of those around them. It’s the same in Korea, but in Japan it just seemed more noticeable or perhaps it was just more deliberately expressed.

Picasso’s Massacre in Korea, one of his most political works, is based on a massacre that occurred near a place called No Gun Ri, a small town south of the city of Daejeon, in July of 1950.

I’d heard about this still controversial incident before coming to Korea, when I caught part of a documentary on massacres committed by the US military during the Korean War. After I arrived here I heard more about it—there was even rumour of a movie. Then I bought a book on the subject, the Pulitzer Prize winning The Bridge at No Gun Ri. It suddenly struck me while reading this that I might as well just go there and have a look for myself. So I did, and more turned up on the trip than I would have thought possible.

It took a bit of searching to find out where exactly No Gun Ri was and how to get there. It’s just a small village.

(Update: a new site dedicated to the No Gun Ri incident is now here. The less comprehensive English version is here and has information on where No Gun Ri is.)

Eventually, I got everything organized and headed out to Daejeon one long weekend with Sunah (my girlfriend at the time). We stayed at a hotel in Daejeon, and on one of the days we took a bus trip to visit Beopjusa Temple—site of a huge 33 metre bronze Buddha and setting for Bruce Lee’s unfinished last film Game of Death.

On the next day, we took a short train trip to No Gun Ri and the massacre site. Coincidentally, the time we went was just before the anniversary of the incident. As the story goes, people were forced out of their villages by US troops and onto railway tracks. They were making their way along these railway tracks when they were subject to a US air force bombing and strafing attack.

Many were killed then and there while others scattered. Many sought refuge in the large railway underpass or trestle near the village of No Gun Ri. However, they were shot at by US soldiers over a period of three days. There were only a handful of survivors.

You can still see the bullet holes on the walls. I expected more but many were plastered over by a post-war right-wing government after the war. It’s possible to see in the pictures the different wall colorings that reveal the whole sections that were plastered. At some sections, wire fences have been erected to prevent vandalism, and chalk circles highlight the bullet holes.

It was perhaps because of this repressive regime that details of the massacre were not well known. The book I mention on the incident didn’t come out until the year 2001. Some survivors are still around, their scars backing up their stories. Each year now there is a commemoration at the No Gun Ri site. The sign across the arch in the picture above is giving notice of the one due in a few days.

Some people also sought refuge in a drain hole, picture below, a quiet place with trickling water and a little pond. It’s up the track from the underpass, closer to where the villagers were first attacked. Getting to this required us to do a bit of hiking along narrow paths on a forested hillside beside the train track. The paths were established but obviously not well used. It was along one of these paths that, incredibly, I uncovered a shell casing.

I had pondered whether there might be military objects lying around, but reason told me that the place must have been scoured over many times in the past, by curiosity seekers, by investigators, perhaps with metal detectors, and by local hikers. Everything surely would have been picked up or unearthed. Even so, I still kept and eye out, and suddenly there it was, beside a track, a shell casing. I was somewhat elated, as you could imagine.

What comes to mind, however, is that if it was so easy to find after all of these years, and after so many people had been through the area, maybe there are a lot more lying around. This said a lot to me about the amount of lead that must have been expended in the area.

During our time there, a trickle of site seers stopped by, more than I would have thought. As is often the case, I was the only foreigner around, and the locals seemed glad that a foreigner was acknowledging the site of a war crime. In fact, I don’t remember seeing any other foreigners on the whole trip.

Although we didn’t have the time, I had wanted to visit the Naktong River where the US military had blown up the Waegwan Bridge while it was still packed with refugees. (It was not the first time this kind of thing had been done.) There’s a new bridge there now with a plaque nearby. After No Gun Ri, we took the train back to Daejeon, passing over the trestle we’d just visited, and from Daejeon, we headed straight back to Seoul.

There’s an old saying that you will only begin to like Thailand upon your second visit. I now have a better idea of what was meant by that. But I suspect that they were not referring to a return to Bangkok or much of anywhere else on the Thai mainland. I certainly wouldn’t bother going back in a hurry.

However, the islands are another story, as I recount below. The big question in my mind is: what happened to the famous Thai smile? You know, the only time I got genuine friendliness and a genuine smile was from young women or girls, often those working in shops or restaurants. Otherwise, these were generally absent unless there was money on offer. I guess money can get you anything you want in Thailand, even a smile.

Bangkok is one of those places you just have to get used to. I don’t think I could handle the weather and pollution for long. Things might be better out of tourist mode, that is, if I was actually living and working there. By my second day in this city I had not formed a great impression of the Thai people, or rather any of them connected with the tourist industry. They were a jaded lot and occasionally openly rude without cause. And I wasn’t even a fat American!

I even got involved in one of those famous scams! It was at the end of a tiring day and I guess they caught me off guard. I was first sucked in because where I wanted to go was exactly where the ‘hooker’ was saying he could get me to cheaply. Then a real taxi was involved, which further caused me to let my guard down.

In the end, they got nothing out of me except a taxi fare but I figured that it was well worth it for the experience and to see how the whole thing was played out. To my knowledge, there were 4 ‘actors’ involved not counting staff at the shop (the final destination of the scam scenario); I call these the ‘hooker,’ the ‘driver,’ the ‘funneler’ and the ‘primer.’ It was very elaborate in terms of settings and plot; they had all the angles and details figured out, such as ways to ensure I didn’t end up sitting in the front next the taxi driver where I could hurt him. I felt pretty stupid at being duped but once I realize I went along with it to see what would happen. Click here if you want a full run down of the scam.

Starving Buddha and Gay Buddha

Often touted as the jewel of the North, Chiang Mai was less than I had expected. Upon our arrival we hit the temple trail and saw a lot of the main temples on foot and by tuk-tuk. At one stage, the tuk-tuk driver suggested we see a temple outside of town and took us to a worthwhile spot. He was one of the good guys and we hoped he would take us on a tour the following day. Unfortunately, his tuk-tuk couldn’t cope with the hilly terrain. Nonetheless, late that night we did secure a driver who had a taxi. I didn’t like the look of him that much, too shifty. But it was late, and tiredness overrode instinct.

Now, this guy we ended up being crooked. The first day went alright. But I had to arrange pricing for the second day all over again. I arranged a price for a tour all inclusive, but at the end of the day he insisted it was per person. I wasn’t going to sit in the car arguing with him; I just said, look, I’ll give you 400 baht, which was 100 more than the price I’d set the day before, and he said OK. And he did this after I’d helped him out by allowing him to take us to some of those tourist shopping traps ‘just to look’ and thereby no doubt assisting him to get a small commission. I’d done this as a kind of act of good will and because we had some time to spare. In addition, while I was out of the car getting change for his 400 baht, he was mocking my girlfriend and a piece of jewellery we bought because it was not white gold. Unfortunately, there are some people in countries like who, because of poverty or lack of education, whatever, are always going to be ignorant peasants.

Anyway, we saw the touristy things. I mainly felt sorry for the Elephants and couldn’t help thinking about their history of slavery. Of course, they’re probably looked after well as they’re a major tourist draw card. I paid money to see a show, but I figure the elephants are probably happier being in a kind of jungle circus than hauling logs all day in the middle of nowhere. There was also a snake farm we were kind of conned into going to that had a small zoo full of animals in way too small cages. This annoyed me, not only because of the life the animals had but because it was just so typical of the kind of tourist operation you get in backward countries.

My idea of going to Ko Samui last on the trip was to relax after some arduous journeying. It worked, and this place made up for earlier everything else. Our small resort, the Samui Paradise, was situation at the cleaner end of Chaweng Beach. It had quaint bungalows, and the one we were in came with a view and was about 10 metres from the beach. If you book early enough, you can get a beachside bungalow. I’d never had a holiday where you sit at a beach all day and just do nothing. I couldn’t see the sense in it, that is, until I did it. I’d would have no hesitation about going back there.

My conclusion is to be careful with who you trust in Thailand if you’re at a tourist hotspot. Everything in the country seems geared to extract your cash, and everyone is in on it. I’d advise you do everything you can in Bangkok in one day then get out as fast as you can the next; for Chiang Mai, two days, but only because you have to travel into the countryside (and more days if you want to find drugs, trekking, jungles, handicrafts, or some kind of hippie awakening). I might get to Pattaya to have a look one of these days, but, personally, I wouldn’t bother with the rest of the mainland unless I hear different. I’m definitely going back, but my efforts will be focused on the islands only.

Here’s how a Thai scam I got caught up in was played out. First the “hooker” stops you in the street with small talk—myfirst mistake was to pay attention to him; then he suggests a good temple or something to visit. He also tells you about an “expo” that many tourists visit that has good deals on. He pretends to be just helping you out, a kind of local sharing his knowledge.

What hooked me was that everything was coincidentally within reach of where I want to go anyway. It was all too easy. If you agree—my second mistake—he says he’ll explain everything to the driver and directly flags down a taxi. This taxi is, in fact, driven by someone he knows, although it doesn’t seem that way. The front door is opened but the car is parked so that the door hits the curb. Some fuss is made of this, and it presents an excuse to make sure you are seated in the back. Now you are in the hands of the “driver,” who takes you to the recommended temple.

Somewhere near the alleged temple, the driver parks and waves you in its supposed direction. As you walk in the direction he has waved, another guy will be there, another kind of friendly stranger, to point you on if you seem lost. This guy is what I call the “funneler,” who directs you down a path leading to a clearing where another “scene” is set to take place.

You came to a clearing and, naturally, do not see a temple. So you are left looking around, at which point the ‘primer’ appears. The primer will engage you in more small talk–”where are you from,” etc., the standard opener. His job is to lead the conversation around to the “expo” that the “hooker” had mentioned earlier, to prime you for when you go there. He’ll speak of the great deals and how he shops there. He’ll also throw in some familiar expressions and place names to give you the impression that he’s well travelled.

I threw a few questions at this guy and he wasn’t too smart at thinking outside of his script. He tripped up and awkwardly recovered, but I was already aware that things didn’t add up anyway.

I nodded at his sales pitch until I got a chance to ask directions to the temple. “It’s closed,” he said. Now I was getting pissed. Of course, the idea is not to give you a tour, it’s to get you to where they want you to be. After returning to the driver, he took me to the so-called “expo,” which turned out to be an ordinary backstreet shop. The windows were blackened, and I asked the driver whether or not it was actually open. This is when he really nervy, insisting that I go inside. That may or may not have been part of the script. At this point I really felt like smacking him a few times.

However, I decided to follow through. I got out and went to see what was inside. It was empty except for the shop attendants hanging around, and there were women inside who immediately scurried off with guilty looks. All I could see was standard tourist junk jewelry and clothing. I strolled about quickly brushing off staff attempts to engaged me in conversation. There was an atmosphere of intimidation but I think they could sense I wasn’t going to take much more shit from anyone. I’d had enough of the game. I left pretty quick.

So this was where the drama was designed to lead me in the hope I would part with some cash. I wondered if they ever made any money out of this; if they’re still doing it then I guess there are tourists out there who don’t know when they’re being shafted. What they got out of me, split up between all of the “players” amounted to very little even by Thai standards. The driver would have made more had he actual been doing an honest day’s work.

Outside I noticed that a mini bus was blocking in the taxi driver. It’s driver saw me and moved to let the taxi out. How this fits into the plot I don’t know. What was going on there? Was the taxi driver under some obligation?

I walk over to the taxi, seeing the driver vigorously and elaborate pick his nose hair. I’d seen this disgusting and childish behaviour in China when someone is unhappy with a tourist. If you’re lucky enough to be treated to one of these spectacles, just be aware that it’s all about trying to insult you, not about personal hygiene.

I got in the taxi and told the driver to take me further into China town. On the way, he continued to nose-hair pick and I continue to ignore it. I was soon in the main part of China town a couple of blocks away and suggested that he drop me there and then, offering probably more than the fair would have added up to but not much more.

He agreed and suddenly became concerned with my welfare in getting out of the taxi. I got out and treated him with politeness, saying thanks with as much sincerity as I could muster, in the hope that it would make him feel like crap.

If there is one word that comes to mind when I think about China it is ‘dirt.’ I don’t think anyone bothers to clean anything because it would be impossible to keep it clean anyway. The dirt didn’t really bother me—what did was the throat clearing and spitting in the streets. It’s a national pass-time. Now, you’d think the sidewalks would be cleaner as a result; however, saliva and dirt only gives you mud. The streets are dirty, the buildings are dirty, the cars are dirty, the toilets are dirty, the pet dogs are dirty, the women are… well, they were good on the eye; like flowers in a bog.

For the Beijing leg of the tour I opted for a package that included hotel accommodation a return flight from Seoul. It was the cheapest option, and eased me into travelling in China without the need to do too much research. As it turned out, it was just me and the guy I went with on the tour, in a mini bus with a driver and a guide.

(Click for a larger view)

That was fine, but as with most tours you get taken to destinations that are not on the itinerary in the hope you will spend money, like a pearl farm outlet and a Chinese medicine institute, etc. Me and the other guy were not impressed with this and had no intention of buying anything; both the driver and the guide were not impressed with this because it meant they didn’t get a commission. So an underlying tension was there, but they weren’t too bad about it; I’ve heard of some tour guides who are outspoken and demonstrably pissed off with tourists who have the gall not to part with their cash.

Anyway, we got to see the major sites, things I’d heard about when growing up. Although the part of the Great Wall we saw just outside Beijing was narrower than what you generally see in photos, the surrounding scenery was spectacular. And I really wish I’d seen more of the old backstreet, dirt poor side of China. It was the first communist country I’d ever been to, but it didn’t seem like it–it seemed just as capitalist as anywhere else. Surprisingly, the Starbucks in the photo above was located in the heart of the Forbidden City.

Some nights were our own for us to do our own thing, like getting one of those famed foot massages. Now this was one of the highlights. I’d recommend it to anyone. We were shown to a room and seated in a very comfy lounge chair. Our feet were then soaked in a wooden bucket full of warm herb-fused water. After that a gentleman came in with toe cutting and cleaning implements. Before I knew it he had a scalpel and with one slice per toe was expertly removing my toe nails. I was a little concerned at this, but needn’t have been. When he was done the massage girls came in. Mine was young and pretty. Sitting on a stool, she spread her legs and with my feet between them lent over and started work on them. It was, as you can imagine, somewhat pleasant. Her hands were powerful, like a man’s. The whole process took around ninety minutes, after which my feet were in heaven.

After the Beijing tour was over, I departed on my own for the solo portion of my trip, taking a flight to Xian. Xian at night, around the market areas, was pretty amazing, especially over Chinese New Year. It was a sensory overload for me, with bizarre sights and sounds at every turn. I loved it.

One night, when walking back to the main part of town, a surreal incident occurred. In a dimly lit area off a main road, a small elderly, leather faced woman with a baby wrapped to her back approached me for money and, as usual with beggars, I attempted to avoid her. She kept countering my moves with sidesteps of surprising agility. So I quickened my pace to get away and with that she began to get physical, pushing against me and grabbing me. On cue, as probably trained, the grubby fat-faced kid behind her flung his head back and started singing out some children’s song. So there we were doing a kind of macabre dance: me trying to get away, the woman clinging to and blocking me, and the rosy cheeked kid on the woman’s back twirling with her in the struggle and loudly singing skyward.

Of course, I was in no danger, but it was kind of nightmarish nonetheless. Eventually, we ended up on the footpath of a main street. She still had a steel grip on my coat and was muttering things and nodding her head to motion at the kid behind her. Things were well beyond tugging at my heartstrings. I raised my arm and fist and hit her arm as hard as I dared away from my coat. It was the only thing left to do. She gave me a hurt look but I was beyond caring.

You’ve got to expect beggars in China. But with them you also get touters who are equally annoying. I expect it’s worse for those, like me at the time, who are on their own. One good thing about my next stop, Nanjing, was the admonishment locals gave to beggars who hassled tourists like me. That didn’t really happen elsewhere to the same extent.

I flew on to Nanjing inspired by Iris Chang’s The Rape of Nanjing. There was little left of old Nanjing; and there is little to indicate a legacy of atrocities on a massive scale, except for my first stop as soon as I got there, the massacre memorial museum. It is showing its age and is perhaps not well funded. Here you can see the actual bones of some victims, where they were buried together.

What stuck in my mind were the bones of a woman whose pelvis had a nail hole through it. Nails that had been used by the Japanese were also on display–they’re about the circumference of a finger and twice as long. The Japanese would nail their victims to death with them, perhaps to save bullets. But a nail in the pelvis suggests acts of perversion and torture took place in the process of killing, which concurs with some of the stuff I’ve read. The Japanese still haven’t apologized for or even really recognized as fact what they did in Nanjing and throughout China.

Next I travelled to Shanghai by bus. It stopped at a well-known hotel and my idea was to get a taxi from here to my hotel. That was my first mistake, for I encountered who is quite possibly the dumbest taxi driver in the world. When I got in the taxi, I announced to him my hotel name explicitly, a name which had the word hotel in it (this is important to note), and showed him details about it that I’d printed from the Internet. He immediately recognized the name and we took off.

I had a bit of an idea of the layout of Shanghai from maps I’d seen and when we passed certain landmarks and headed across the river, I became concerned. My hotel, I knew, was in the other direction. I debating what to do, seeing that we were soon in a less built up area on the outskirts of Shanghai. I couldn’t quite figure out what kind of scam was being pulled. It didn’t add up. The driver then stopped on a wide four lane road, motioning to me as if to ask, where to now? At this point, there was some confusion, as I thought he know where he was actually going. He then pulled off into a more deserted street, and I resolved that there was no way I was getting out of that cab.

What transpired next was a long interlude of communication failure. I gathered that the hotel I’d mentioned had the same name as the suburb I was now in. So this taxi driver, of all people, had no idea what the word “hotel” meant. It got worse, because the hotel number I printed from the Internet was out of date or wrong. I then showed him several maps I’d also printed. No luck there. He didn’t seem to understand maps, especially if they had English on them. He just shook his head and looked at me.

Keep in mind that all of this went on for quite some time. So I was beginning to get quite annoyed, but I kept things cool and started with the basics. I got him to understand that the map I was showing him was a map of Shanghai, the city we were in. I had some success with this first step. Then I finally got him to understand that the large picture on the map I was pointing to was of Shanghai’s Pearl Tower. This also succeeded. Then I indicated for him to go there. At least around there, I thought, there’d be someone who spoke English.

Despite his IQ, he managed to get me there. After being dropped off, he probably headed off to create chaos elsewhere; I headed directly for the Hilton and approached a door man who was able to get me a taxi directly to my hotel. In the end, I wasn’t really upset about the time and money wasted because I considered it a privilge to have met and experienced the dumbest taxi driver in the world.

(Click for a larger view

Speaking of the Pearl Tower, I warn everyone not to buy a ticket to go up to it’s observation decks unless you are there early. Sure, it looks pretty on the outside, but the building is simply not equipped to handle many people and there are pathetic security measures which slow everything down further. I had a horrendous wait of over two hours, which I couldn’t easily escape from after a certain point. Once finally at the top, I had an extra wait to go to the toilet, to relieve some most uncomfortable gas and diarrhea that had been bursting to get out an hour back. The guy in there just wouldn’t come out, even when I kicked on the door—he was talking on his mobile. When he came out I saw it was one of the staff. I let him have a stream of expletives. I recommend avoiding the Pearl Tower altogether and going instead to the observation deck atop the Jin Mao Building where the Hilton is located.

I also recommend being in Shanghai for the last day of the Chinese New Year as I was. Make sure you’re in a hotel with a good view of the city. Of course, there are fireworks going off all over the place throughout the week at this time of year. However, on the last night the intensity increases leading up the midnight. At midnight the whole city erupts with fireworks in every direction and as far as you can see. It was a truly amazing site, as if all Shanghai were under bombardment. I’ll be going back one day to see that again.

This is a view from the balcony of the condo Sunah and I stayed in at the ski resort of Yong Pyong over Xmas of 2004. The resort is near the peninsula’s east coast about 4 hours from Seoul. We arrive just before Xmas and had a day and a night on crowd-free slopes. This meant that we rarely had to wait long for ski lifts and there was plenty of room for loosing control.

I knew nothing about snowboarding but Sunah had been a few times before. She gave me some beginners lessons and I got the hang of it pretty quick. Without the crowds, we both got in plenty of practice.

Of course, by Xmas day the crowds had descended. Long waits for the ski lifts and people getting in your way made it less fun. If I ever go again, I’ll definitely avoid vacation days. Here’s a view from one of the slopes back down to our condo. You can see how open and unimpeded things were.

At night, they turn on the lights and you can stay out there into the early morning. We snowboarded for a while at night, but it was a bit precarious because patches of ice couldn’t be spotted easily. I hit one of these and the board went out from under me. I fell back and went down hard, my head slamming into the ice and bouncing, giving me that sickly feeling you get. I thought I might have done some real damage. I must have thick skull because I continued to function normally. I did, however, quit the slopes soon after that blow.